


age ain't nothing but a number

by 7iris



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, M/M, Montreal Canadiens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7iris/pseuds/7iris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now, you all know things like this happen sometimes," Therrien says.</p>
<p>Which, yes, that's true, sometimes healing spells go wrong. Sometimes the magic meant to convince someone's shoulder to go back to the state it was in an hour or a day ago spills over to the rest of the body, taking off more than a day, more than a month.</p>
<p>But it doesn't make it any less disconcerting to see a teenage Carey Price fidgeting nervously in the Florida dressing room when the game is finally over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	age ain't nothing but a number

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this ridiculous set of pictures](http://7iris.tumblr.com/post/114969605215/suckmyprusticles-carey-price-alcohol-bonus-photo). Reposted from tumblr.

"Now, you all know things like this happen sometimes," Therrien says.

Which, yes, that's true, sometimes healing spells go wrong. Sometimes the magic meant to convince someone's shoulder to go back to the state it was in an hour or a day ago spills over to the rest of the body, taking off more than a day, more than a month.

But it doesn't make it any less disconcerting to see a teenage Carey Price fidgeting nervously in the Florida dressing room when the game is finally over.

*

Carey went down in the first, in a tangle of bodies crashing the net, his arm caught wrong under someone's weight.

When the magic resets your body to its younger self, it wipes away everything -- scars, tattoos, conditioning. Memories. It'll wear off eventually, of course, even healing spells can't cheat time, but they all have to introduce themselves to Carey. He nods along, but he's looking overwhelmed by the end.

PK is made responsible for taking Carey home when they land in Montreal.

"I don't know why he's my problem," PK says.

"Please, like you would let anyone else take care of him," Prusty says. 

PK flips him off, because that is just unfairly true.

Carey slouches down in the passenger side of PK's car. He's giving PK quick, cautious sidelong glances. PK doesn't really know what to say. _Hey, how's being a teenager again working out for you?_

He settles on, "Uh, you can turn on the radio if you want. See what you've missed in the world of pop culture."

Carey snorts, but he turns on the radio, starts scrolling through PK's presets.

Arguing about the current state of country music gets them to Carey's house. PK's got an extra set of Carey's keys, and the wards sigh and part, recognizing him, when he opens the door.

Carey gives him another unreadable sidelong look at that.

The dogs come running downstairs in a clatter of toenails and excited barking, and Carey's face lights up. He crouches down and accepts their enthusiastic face-licking, scratching them behind their ears. 

"That's Mody," PK says, pointing. "And that's Duke."

"Hi, guys," Carey says. The dogs take five seconds to say hi to PK before circling back to Carey.

"So," PK says. 

Carey looks up at him, and his smile fades. "Are you leaving?"

PK hesitates. It's late, and he's exhausted, but he can't leave a teenager all alone in a strange house. "Nah, man, I'm staying."

*

PK sets his alarm early, so he has time to swing by his place and put on some clean clothes before practice. He's yawning when he stumbles downstairs in his boxers, desperate for coffee. Carey's sitting at the kitchen island, eating a bowl of cereal. 

He looks up when PK comes in and drops his spoon. 

PK grunts at him and heads straight for the coffee maker. There's a pot already made. PK pours himself a cup, adds milk and sugar. 

When he turns around, Carey's staring at him, cheeks pink. Carey flushes redder and drags his eyes away from PK's chest.

"Um," PK says. "I'm just gonna--" He waves his mug in the general direction of the stairs and hustles to get dressed.

*

Carey comes to the rink with him, so the healers can check him out again, frown and cluck their tongues over his aura.

PK can tell he's trying to be cool, but he looks around the locker room like a rookie on his first call-up. Which is what he is, PK supposes.

In the car on the way home, Carey finds a sports radio show that's talking about his injury, wondering if it's doomed the Habs again, if this is going to be like the Eastern Conference Finals all over again.

“Don't listen to that shit,” PK says, changing the station. “It's going to be fine.”

“We were in the conference final last season?”

PK glances over at him. He looks impressed. PK grins. "It's better than that."

At the next light, PK finds his favorite picture on his phone. It's him and Carey on the plane back from Sochi, pressed in close together so they're both in the frame, holding their gold medals up. PK has his other arm around Carey's shoulders. He made Carey take the picture. (“Because your arms are longer, dude!”) They're smiling, not the giddy ridiculous joy of the locker room, but soft, bone-deep happiness.

PK gives his phone to Carey.

"Is that--?"

“Olympic gold, baby,” PK says.

Carey looks at that picture for a long time.

PK drops Carey off. He needs his afternoon nap, and he can't actually hover over Carey until this fixes itself, but--

"Dinner tonight?" PK asks. "You, me, Prusty, the Gallys?"

Carey makes a face.

"Great!" PK says. "I'll pick you up at seven!"

*

Carey actually lets himself be picked up, which PK wasn't sure about.

"You won the Norris," Carey says when he slides into the front seat.

"Are you googling us?" PK asks.

Carey shrugs.

"Yeah, well, I hope you saw the part about how you're gonna get a matching Vezina this year," PK says.

Carey shrugs again, looks out the window, but PK can see him biting his lip on a tiny, excited smile.

They go to this little Italian restaurant that PK likes, where they can get a quiet little booth in the back and no one will bother them. He invited Gally and Chucky because they're closer to Carey's current age, and he invited Prusty because he's mentally still a teenager. Carey's quiet at first, pressed in between PK and the wall, but he loosens up as they talk about hockey. By the end of dinner, they're all laughing, and Gally and Chucky have talked Carey in pranking Gonch.

(Which is going to be a terrible disaster, and PK kind of can't wait to see it all go down.)

But in the car on the way back, Carey is silent, tense and fidgety. 

When they pull up in front of Carey's house, Carey unbuckles his seatbelt and half-turns to face him. "Are we fucking?"

PK chokes on nothing. "No. Um. No."

Carey narrows his eyes. "Would you tell me if we were?"

"Yeah," PK says. He wants to ask why Carey thought that, he didn't think he was that obvious -- 

"Okay," Carey says, clipped and short, and gets out of the car.

*

Carey as a teenager is tall and skinny, like a giraffe held together with rubber bands.

He doesn't practice with the team, but Stephane stays later to work with Carey, after the rest of the team is done on the ice. PK and Dustin sit on the bench and watch Pleky and Chucky take shots at Carey.

"I was not that good at eighteen," Dustin says.

PK laughs and throws his arm around Dustin's shoulders. "No one was that good at eighteen."

Dustin sighs and leans into him.

On the ice, Carey straightens up, pushes his mask back. He glares at them while he reaches for his water bottle, until Stephane gets his attention again.

*

They get Dustin a win for the last game of the season in Toronto, and they all go out afterwards. They take over the back room of a club that doesn't care who they are or who they beat. Beer and shots are getting handed out like water, the music is pumping loud and bass-heavy, and everyone is laughing, amped up.

Carey ends up dancing on the table with Gally and Rosey, and PK watches with one hand over his face, torn between laughing and yelling at them to get down before they break something.

He's seen Carey a few beers in before, seen him happy after a win, but even then, there was always something guarded about it, like he was holding a little piece of himself back. But this Carey is open, radiating joy like the sun. He's hugging everyone, and he actually grinds up on Gally's ass while they're dancing. (Gally looks so surprised he almost falls off the table.) PK can't stop watching him.

Carey jumps off the table and drops down into the booth next to PK. He throws an arm around PK's neck, pulls him in to kiss the side of his head.

"That kill was fucking amazing, Subby!" he yells, over the music.

"Yeah, it was," PK says.

"You're fucking amazing," Carey says. He presses his face into the side of PK's throat. "I can't believe I get to play behind you. All of you. In the playoffs, fuck."

"Yeah," PK says gruffly. His chest feels tight, too full of emotion. He cups the back of Carey's head. "Me, too."

Carey sighs against his skin. "Why aren't we fucking?"

PK suppresses a startled twitch. "Whoa, okay, cab it is."

Carey makes a disgruntled sound, but he doesn't move away when PK digs his phone out and opens the Uber app. 

The night is winding down anyway, guys already starting to trickle out. PK waves goodbye to the one who look sober enough to notice, and hauls Carey outside. He's quiet in the car at least, slumping down to put his head on PK's shoulder.

PK pushes him out when they get to the hotel. Carey stumbles, leaning into him, long limbs everywhere. PK digs through Carey's pockets in the elevator, but he can't find his key card.

"Well, you've brought this upon yourself," PK tells him when the elevator doors open. "You're just going to have to deal with my snoring."

Carey smiles slowly and licks his lips. "Okay," he says, low and husky.

PK coughs. "No, that's not-- Never mind." 

They lean on each other to take their shoes off in PK's room. PK nudges Carey towards one of the beds and gets a bottle of water from the minibar.

"Here," he says. 

Carey grabs his wrist instead of the bottle, pulls him in and presses their mouths together. It's awkward and clumsy, too hard, and Carey tastes like beer and whiskey. 

It still makes something twist sharply in PK's chest.

"No, hey," he says gently, pulling back.

Carey scowls, all sullen, petulant teenager. "Why not?"

"Because you're drunk and I'm too old for you," PK says.

Carey's scowl deepens.

"Drink your water and go to sleep," PK says.

"Fine." Carey twists the cap off the water viciously. 

PK's never seen anyone drink water with that level of drunken, angry intensity, and he wants to smile, that sharp twist smoothing out into deep fondness.

He turns off the lights instead, takes off his suit and brushes his teeth.

Carey's asleep when he comes back out. PK takes the empty water bottle away and folds the covers over him like a taco.

He looks at Carey's face in the streetlight filtering in through the drapes, too young but still so familiar. 

"Hurry up," he says to the magic still tangled up in Carey's aura. "We need him back."

*

PK wakes up to the smell of coffee. There's a Timmies cup on the nightstand.

"You're gonna miss the flight if you don't get up," Carey says.

PK jerks up at the sound of his voice. Carey is back to his old -- ha -- self, smirking at him.

PK scrambles out of bed and wraps Carey up in a bear hug. "Oh, thank God."

Carey feels solid again in his arms, not all bony and skinny. He even smells right again, which PK hadn't even noticed before. He's halfway expecting Carey to laugh and push him off, but Carey hugs him back just as tight.

PK clears his throat and steps back. "Um. Thanks for the coffee."

Carey shrugs. His smirk fades and he watches PK with a serious, intense expression.

"I'm older than you now," Carey says. PK opens his mouth to make a joke, and Carey adds, "And I'm not drunk."

PK's stomach swoops. "You remember."

Carey shrugs, trying for casual but only hitting stiff. "I remember you didn't say you didn't-- want me like that."

PK nods. "Yeah, that's. That's not really the reason we're not fucking, y'know?"

"No," Carey says. "I didn't know."

"Oh. Well--" PK's voice trails off when Carey steps in, close enough that he has to lift his chin to meet Carey's eyes.

Carey kisses him. It's gentle and careful, a soft, warm press of lips. PK makes a tiny startled noise, and braces his hand on Carey's hip. Carey tastes like coffee and PK's got morning breath and it should be gross, but PK's lips are tingling and his heart is beating like crazy in his chest.

Carey lifts his head. "I thought either you were lying or I grew up to be the dumbest asshole on the planet, because how could we _not_ be together?"

"Oh," PK says.

His alarm goes off, and PK jumps.

Carey steps back. "C'mon, we really will miss the flight if you don't get going."

"No," PK says, his hand tightening on Carey's hip. "I want--"

Carey grins at him, warm and bright and open. "It's okay. We can pick this up when we're home, we've got plenty of time before the playoffs start."

PK thinks about _home_ and _playoffs_ and Carey's smile. "Okay," he says, and goes to put some pants on.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] age ain't nothing but a number](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11996496) by [frecklebombfic (frecklebomb)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklebomb/pseuds/frecklebombfic)




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